


dance yrself clean

by pewpewpewpew



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Awkward Bellamy, Dancing, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i don't know how to edit, still very new to this scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 20:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19472050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pewpewpewpew/pseuds/pewpewpewpew
Summary: John’s stupid drunken tongue worked before his stupid drunken mind could think; “We should dance.” ― trying too hard to sound as though he didn’t care, either way.Bellamy’s eyes glittered with a laugh, still on his lips, before John’s jaw was set and realization dawned that he was only half-joking, less than half-joking. A slow blink. “Okay,” he responded. Downed a shot and stood. Hey, what the hell, right? ― and, also, Hey, what the hell (am I thinking)?____________a messy drabble? song-fic? i’m not too sure. something in between a self-indulgent fix-it-fic on the events following 6x03 and senseless, drunken dancing.





	dance yrself clean

**Author's Note:**

> real big shout out to blueparacosm for indirectly inspiring / getting me back into the swing of things. ( thanks, jen. i’m on my fifth cup of caffeine. )
> 
>  _I Can Change_ and _Dance Yrself Clean_ taken from LCD Soundsystem’s _This Is Happening._
> 
> hopefully people enjoy it!

“Does it ever strike you, in a horrible kind of way, how funny this is?”

Bellamy’s voice was low, mumbled just loudly enough to be heard beneath the quiet hum of the tavern, but distinctly pessimistic. John Murphy noted this last detail with a hidden scowl, already building a mental image of the Bellamy Blake behind him: ruffled dark hair, fingers dug into his pockets, eyes half-lidded with the unmistakable glaze of alcohol.

John wasn’t a great guilty drunk, but at least he’d had practice; this version of Bellamy, with his hands slick and nervous, looking sort of like a wounded animal, ― was the worst, and even less fun and more awkward (in Murphy’s professional experience) than its soberer, guiltier counterpart.

“Yeah,” said Murphy, because that was the correct answer. It _had_ struck him. It had struck him how funny it was, all things considered, that his life on a foreign planet breathing foreign air had nearly ended breathing no air at all, at the hilt of _Bellamy’s_ resolve. Again. It had struck him as fitting, admittedly, that he should spend six years and beyond impatiently repairing and intermittently destroying essential relationships to his well-being just for _everyone but himself_ to go stupid, go crazy, ( _ahh_ ) and turn on him without the slightest conscious thought in their pretty heads. It had struck him, in a horrible kind of way, _how funny this was_. He was hunched surreptitiously over a shot of something that smelled a bit like floral disinfectant and threw it back, pushed away from the bar to turn and see Bellamy face-to-face. Closer than he’d thought. “Sure. But usually only just before I’m about to die.”

Bellamy looked, at first glance, undisturbed by this comment, but after a moment his shoulders stiffened and then fell, and he slid into the barstool beside him. By this hour, the tavern had essentially cleared, leaving only a handful of drunkards to remain in what was a remarkably open space. A few lamps dimly lit here and there, burning an uncomfortable, honey-like saturation into pockets of light. They threw shadows along Bellamy’s jaw, his rimmed brown gaze, and Murphy kicked himself for sounding so bitter. He hadn’t meant it.

Beside him, Bellamy shifted. Squirmed. Sucked in a breath. “Look, Murphy, I ― ,”

 _It wasn’t you, you didn’t know, not your fault, not your fault, not your fault._ “Yeah, yeah. You’re sorry. You ever listened to music?”

It took a moment for Bellamy’s sluggish brain to digest the question, visibly disarmed by the perplexing inquiry. Murphy watched as gears turned behind his halting expression, his lips gliding slowly, _smoothly_ . . .

“Sure,” said Bellamy, his tone vaguely defensive. The Ark had its music, sort of. Mount Weather. Grounders dancing, jaggedly, violently, around a pit of fire. Even _their_ camp ― Jasper, with his stupid goggles and grinning face and sticks and metal bars ― even they’d had music. His neutral expression waned just a little and _really, Murphy, what kind of question is that?_

Murphy dug into his jacket pocket and retrieved the stolen music player, instinctively throwing glances over his shoulders, ready to pinch his face into a smile and politely exclaim, _awh, no, this old thing? had it since i was a wee lad, you wouldn’t believe the things my pops used to play_. . . , but the tavern was nearly empty and carried deliriously, quietly on. So he punched shuffle and waited.

The first song was lonesome and cold. The vocalist sounded tired and John could tell at once that Bellamy wasn’t a fan, glazed gaze resting uneasily on the player. _Skip_ one brought them to an aggressive garage rock beat, and _skip_ two was a pretentious piece of classical. Neither won Bellamy’s approval, and Murphy was about to shrug and call it quits when the classical drift was replaced with the unfortunate and sudden juxtaposition of a radical, dance-y electronica.

Bellamy paused as the first enthusiastic blips buzzed in, presumably as puzzled as John was with the unfamiliar production. It reminded Murphy vaguely of old movies about what the future was supposed to be like; broad computers in every wall, black mirrors that would blink and cheerfully arrange breakfasts.

 _tell me a line, make it easy for me_  
_open your arms_  
_dance with me until i feel alright._

 _This is weird_ , thought Murphy.

“This is weird,” Bellamy was saying, but somehow he did not sound put off by it. Instead his eyes closed, and he dipped his head down. Vocals of cigars and uncertainty.

_― ring the alarm, ring the alarm;  
bore me and hold me and cling to my arm._

John’s stupid drunken tongue worked before his stupid drunken mind could think; “We should dance.” ― trying too hard to sound as though he didn’t care, either way.

Bellamy’s eyes glittered with a laugh, still on his lips, before John’s jaw was set and realization dawned that he was only half-joking, less than half-joking. A slow blink. “Okay,” he responded. Downed a shot and stood. _Hey, what the hell, right?_ ― and, also, _Hey, what the hell (am I thinking)?_

Murphy didn’t think he’d get this far. It took him a moment to stumble to his feet.

 _and what you’re asking me, now; disastrous, now_  
_hoping and hoping and hoping_  
_the feeling goes a w a y._

The thing was, Murphy did actually like to dance. And drunk Murphy really, really liked to dance; juvenile and sporadic. Bellamy’s face splintered with a cocked grin watching him swing and sway, mouthing lyrics he didn’t know. He was chuckling, hard, by the time John caught onto the chorus.

 _never change, never change, never change, never change_  
_never change, never change, never change_  
_this is why i fell in love._

Seamlessly, Bellamy wilted and melted into the fluid movements, allowing himself to be carried by Murphy’s inebriated energy. The room spun and tilted and, for moment, the colors themselves conceded to oils bleeding onto a canvas. He dipped Murphy and the two sputtered with a breathless laugh.

 _and love is a murderer, love is a murderer ―_  
_but if She calls you tonight,_  
_everything is alright._

Bellamy caught his hands, naturally, nearly indistinguishably. He caught his hands and their bodies thudded in steady rhythm, adrenaline driving sweat down their necks and heartrates high, high, high. Infatuated with the strange strings of sound and the way limbs moved, feet bounced, unapologetically― yet their minds pursued in spaces of haze and stupor.

 _and love is a curse, shoved in a hearse_  
_love is an open book to a verse_  
_of your bad poetry_  
_(and this is coming from me.)_

Unthinking, unblinking, Bellamy brought Murphy’s hands to his shoulders, brought his own to Murphy’s back ― and they stood like this for some time, riding out the waves of the chorus as their chests rose and fell. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Hell was a nonexistent entity and why couldn’t they just live _here_ , endless, eternal? 

Neither felt it.

 _but i can change, i can change, i can change, i can change_  
_i can change, i can change, i can change_  
_if it helps you fall in love._

Tentatively, at some point, Bellamy had pulled closer. Even reeking of sweat and liquor, Murphy had thought Bellamy felt tense, as though a distant guilt were leaking through his skin. He was holding him like he was of glass.

 _but there’s love in your eyes_  
_love in your eyes, love in your eyes_  
_but maybe that's just your love of fights._

And suddenly Bellamy was in his ear, desperate beneath the eager throb of music. He was nearly gasping for air, and though John couldn’t see his face he could feel every shaking breath swept into his lungs;

“I didn’t mean to, didn’t mean to ― not again, Murphy, I swear I didn’t _mean_ ― ,”

 _but i can change, i can change, i can change, i can change_  
_i can change, i can change, i can change!_  
_if it helps you fall in love!_

Murphy pulled back, removed from the crook in Bellamy’s neck and dizzy with a sinking adrenaline high, sluggish exhaustion. He didn’t remember winding up swaying from that position, half-conscious. Half-aware.

Bellamy’s eyes were raw when Murphy met them.

 _i can change, i can change, i can change_  
_if it helps you feel real l o v e._

“I don’t blame you,” said Murphy, but, geez, did that line have a lot to carry. The song was falling off, nearly as despairing and pleading as Bellamy was. “So stop blaming yourself.”

Bellamy nodded, head a little too heavy for his shoulders, before the two fell for the final rhythmic lines. Bad drunk singing, bad drunk dancing.

 _and i can change, i can change, i can change, i can change_  
_i can change, i can change, i can change_

_if it helps you feel real love._


End file.
